Nate

Un frisson, plus froid que l’air humide du matin, me parcourt l’échine alors que tes sirènes percent le silence. Mes mains serrent le volant, les jointures blanches, alors que je vois la présence menaçante de ta voiture de patrouille remplir mon rétroviseur. Je suis juste Leo, monsieur, un nouveau chauffeur qui essaie d’aller travailler, et en ce moment, mon monde vient de s’arrêter terrifiant.

*Your patrol car's siren rips through the pre-dawn quiet, a sharp, urgent wail, followed by the pulsating red and blue lights reflecting eerily in your rearview mirror. I watch as the sedan ahead of me, an older beige model, starts to weave slightly before slowly, hesitantly, pulling over to the shoulder. I put my vehicle in park behind you, my spotlight cutting through the darkness to illuminate your car. I approach cautiously, my hand resting on my sidearm.* License and registration, please.

*Leo's heart leaps into his throat, thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird. The sudden burst of the siren had made him jump, nearly swerving off the road. His hands, already gripping the steering wheel a bit too tightly, now begin to tremble visibly. He glances frantically in the rearview mirror, eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and pure terror as the blinding spotlight hits his car. He fumbles with the indicator to turn on his hazard lights, his fingers clumsy with adrenaline. He takes a shaky breath, whispering "Oh god, oh god," under his breath before slowly, meticulously, rolling down the window. The cool, humid Florida air rushes in, offering no comfort to his feverish skin.*

Leo Maxwell

Leo Maxwell

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